The Clash of Storm and Sea
by Quinn Anderson
Summary: Music School AU. The first time John heard Sherlock play, he knew he was done for. Teenlock.
1. Chapter 1

Inspired by a poem called "Whale Songs of the Pacific" by Sora-Seraph on DA. Read it. It's phenomenal.

**i.**

Listen.

"It's going to be fine, sweetie," John's mother said as she smoothed her warm, callused hand over his brow. "You'll have a wonderful time. You'll make new friends and see the world. This is an amazing opportunity."

His room was dark, layered in shadows that scattered like mice as the headlights from passing cars burst through the blinds. He was lying on his side, blankets drawn up to his chin, while his mother sat on the bed next to him. Part of him wanted to tell her he wasn't a child anymore—he didn't need her to coddle him—but the rest of him felt small and scared and needed her hands carding through his hair more than anything. He couldn't see her face in the dark, but he could imagine her expression: kind and a bit tired. That was how she always looked these days, since Dad finally gave up the pretence and left, howling in the middle of the night, and Harry started stumbling home just hours before dawn.

He smiled thinly even though he knew she couldn't see him. "I know it is. I'm just nervous."

"This is your best chance, John," his mum whispered. "You're going to be something great. I just know it."

John swallowed around the tightness in his throat and nodded. He needed to be brave. He _would_ be brave.

For all of them.

**ii.**

Listen.

The academy looked like something out of a dream.

John had read all the pamphlets and done the Google image searches, but nothing had prepared him for what it was like to actually arrive on campus. A large, lofty building—he shied away from the more applicable term: castle—perched on a rocky cliff, surrounded by a smattering of other, smaller buildings. Its grey stone blended in with the overcast sky, giving it a hazy appearance. It contrasted heavily with the green, mossy grass sprawling out around it, covered in a thin veil of mist. Everything from the elegant spires to the wrought-iron gate screamed _old_ and _prestigious. _Gargoyles and statues of women with shrouded faces peered at him with empty, stone eyes. The roar of waves and wind buzzed constantly in John's ears, briefly disorienting him. He was used to ambulance sirens and barking dogs, not the sound of a tempestuous English sea. The air was a brutal mixture of salt and cold, invigorating him even as it stung his nose with every breath.

John had heard that the Sonitum et Furore Academy of Music used to be a monastery before it was converted into a school, but now he believed it. He'd never seen anything as solemnly beautiful as this.

He adjusted his rucksack nervously on his shoulder and glanced back towards the car. His mum was standing by the passenger door with her hands clasped, silent tears streaming down her face as two men—stewards who worked for the academy—juggled his luggage. He glanced around to make certain no students were nearby before turning and running to her. She caught him in her open arms and hugged him tightly to her.

"I'll miss you, sweetie," she whispered into his hair.

"I'll miss you too, mum." He squeezed her firmly and tried to ignore his burning eyes. He pushed her away after a moment that was far too short and smiled. "I'll write whenever I can and tell you all about my new friends. I'll be back before you know it." The lie tasted sour on his tongue.

A flash of black caught his eye, and he spun about. "Oi, I'll carry that!"

The stewards had pulled his clarinet case from the backseat and were seconds away from hurling it on top of his other bags. With a shrug, they laid it on the ground and allowed him to jog over and haul it up by the handle. He gave it an affection pat before turning back to his mum.

She gave him one last hug and then squared her shoulders as if steeling herself. "Be great, John. Be as great as you can be."

Just as he opened his mouth, the stewards coughed impatiently and started making their way towards the gate with his bags, sans case, in tow.

John trailed after them but paused long enough to call back, "I will, mum. I promise."

As he passed over the threshold, he looked up at the archway that marked the entrance to campus and saw the academy's motto chiselled into the wizened stone.

Musicae Aut Mors.

**iii.**

Listen.

"No, no, no, _no!_"

Sherlock growled impatiently and wrenched his bow from the strings with an unearthly screech. Professor Woods flinched at the noise, and Sherlock grinned wickedly. He could hear the other students grumbling around him, but that only made his smile grow.

"You cannot simply decide to play your own private solo in the middle of a piece!" the professor shrieked, brandishing his baton like a sword. He was a squat man with a florid face and a stuffy brown suit that reeked perpetually of mothballs. He stood behind the conductor's podium at the front of the stage, just barely tall enough to peer over it. The dim lighting made his sagging face look like melted candle wax. "You may be first chair, but this is still an _orchestra. _You must play together with the others, not whatever notes pop into your head."

"But this piece is _dull_," Sherlock whinged, tossing his bow impatiently onto the stand before him. The sound of wood hitting metal rang satisfyingly in the air. He would never abuse his beloved Stradivarius violin that way, but he had loads of replacement bows in his room. He leant back in his chair and crossed his arms defiantly over his chest. "There's no life to it. It's another boring hymn written by boring monks to praise a boring, imaginary deity. My brain is rotting from the utter tedium of it."

"Mister. Holmes." Professor Woods was audibly grinding his teeth. "You will play whatever pieces I tell you to and keep your juvenile commentary to yourself. This is a learning environment, and no matter how much you may think you know better, you will follow my instruction."

"But I _do_ know better," Sherlock sneered. "It's incontestable fact that I'm the most talented student in this entire academy." He gestured grandly to the thirty blank faces seated in a semicircle around him. "The others grind out anything you place in front of them and never think twice about it. Half of them don't know the difference between _allegretto _and _allegro. _How am I to derive any pleasure from playing with this lot of imbecilic troglodytes?"

"_Mister Holmes, you—"_

"Oh, just admit it. There isn't a single student in this school who's worthy of playing on the same stage as me."

There was a beat of tense silence.

Then a door at the back of the auditorium squeaked open.

**iv.**

Listen.

It had taken John over an hour to find his way from his new dorm room (a wardrobe-sized space with a bare bed and a single small bureau) to the appropriate classroom, but considering how many dimly-lit corridors the academy had, he considered that a personal achievement. The stewards had led him to the front office and then promptly disappeared, leaving him to manage his luggage on his own. A harried-looking secretary had thrust his schedule and an extremely unhelpful map of campus into his hands before ushering him and his things out the door. It seemed he was expected to locate his classes on his own.

The academy was as intimidating on the inside as it was on the outside. The walls were covered in faded paintings and tapestries depicting hunting scenes. There were thankfully electric lights in most of the stone corridors, but some were illuminated only by what light managed to spill through the narrow windows. If nothing else, he could certainly say his new school had atmosphere. He half-expected to encounter a vampire or a banshee in one of the deserted rooms.

John flexed his fingers around the handle of his clarinet case as he stared at the imposing wood door that led to Performance Room #4. Beyond it, his new classmates waited, the people who would hopefully become his friends for the next two years as he attempted to enter the competitive world of professional music. Most people thought of pop stars and tattooed rock bands when the term was mentioned, but the spots in the big opera houses were just as heavily coveted. This was John's opportunity to snag one for himself. Sonitum et Furore—or Sonnet Academy, as it was more colloquially known—was the most esteemed music school in England. If anything could give him a shot at a career as a clarinetist, this was it.

After taking a deep, steadying breath, he braced his shoulder against the door and pushed. Unfortunately, the hinges had recently been oiled, and it slid open far more easily than he'd anticipated. The door emitted a high squeak that echoed throughout the auditorium, and John stumbled forward, only barely managing to keep his balance. Thirty-two heads turned to stare at him from the stage on the far end of the room, the sound of rustling fabric filling the air. He froze and felt hot blood seep into his cheeks. Whispers broke out a moment later, and his face quickly went from hot to nuclear. He straightened up and shifted from foot to foot. He briefly considered waving, but then he discarded the idea as too awkward for words.

The auditorium was medium-sized and shaped like a rounded triangle. Heavy red curtains—well, he assumed they were red under the generous layer of dust coating them—hung around a semi-circular stage upon which his fellow students sat in black folding chairs. Golden chandeliers dripping with cobwebs provided the only light in the room, casting harsh shadows everywhere. The air smelt vaguely musty with a hint of the nearby sea. About fifty rows of theatre seats spread out towards the back wall, which was lined with broken desks, tables and old boxes. It seemed the auditorium doubled as a dumping ground for everything the academy didn't need anymore. He tried not to think too hard about what that meant for him.

The whispering was beginning to irritate him, so John decided he might as well plunge right into the fray. He picked his way through the detritus to the centre aisle and began to trot dutifully down it.

Before he got halfway to the stage, a boy with pale skin and a shock of black curls stood up from the spot John recognised as the first violin's chair.

"Not a scholarship student, despite his appearance," the boy droned in a deep, dry voice. "His clothes are new but not brand-name, so someone without a lot of money was trying to make a good first impression. He comes from a working-class family with an absent parent and an alcoholic older brother, judging by the state of his shoes. He had ambitions to study medicine, but his family couldn't afford to send him to the proper preparatory schools. Music is his last shot at glory, so to speak."

John skidded to a halt and stared at the boy. He fleetingly wondered if he'd just encountered a psychic, but then a dowdy, older man who was clearly the professor rounded on the pale boy and shouted, "Holmes, I've had enough of you for one day! This class was not designed to give you opportunities to flaunt your observation skills! You will stay behind after lecture tomorrow and sort sheet music as punishment."

"What, couldn't think up a punishment for today?" the boy said in a tone that oscillated between ennui and disdain.

"Oh, no." The professor clasped his hands together with obvious glee. "Today you'll have a special punishment. I'm appointing you the task of showing our latest addition about after practice. We all know how much you _love_ to help your fellow students. Please," he flourished his hand in John's direction, "meet our new clarinetist: John Watson."

**v.**

Listen.

Sherlock spent the rest of the class sat rigidly in his chair, watching the new boy out of the corner of his eye. John Watson, as the professor had named him, was blond, tan and more muscular than the majority of students at the academy, albeit quite a bit shorter as well. He'd likely played some form of recreational sport at his last school, probably rugby if the scattering of scars on his hands were any indication. His hair was tousled in a boyish way, and his lips curved up naturally into a semblance of a smile. He stood out from the other sour, pasty faces in the woodwinds section like a beam of sunshine.

Sherlock's first instinct was to hate him viciously.

If there was one thing he despised more than the students who bounced about with fake peppiness, pretending their lives were perfectly normal even as their mothers slept with the postman and their fathers drank too much, it was the students who were genuinely happy. John had the look of someone who'd never had much in life and yet managed to be content anyway, and that made Sherlock want to punch him.

Considering Sherlock was also now saddled with the arduous task of showing John around (which would take all of two minutes; the only interesting places in the academy were the observatory and the library), it should have been easy for him to develop a severe dislike for the boy.

He'd just settled on the idea when John glanced across the room and caught his eye. The boy looked startled at first—probably due to the undoubtedly vitriolic look on Sherlock's face—but then he smiled hesitantly. Something in Sherlock's expression must have encouraged him, because his grin grew, and he favoured him with a cheeky wink.

Sherlock looked quickly away, his heart pounding inexplicably in his chest. He picked up his violin and tried to focus on his sheet music, but the notes swam.

He had the sudden, sinking suspicion that John Watson was much more than he appeared.

**vi.**

Listen.

John felt comfortable admitting he had no idea what to expect from Sherlock Holmes.

When class ended—it was thankfully the last of the day. He'd managed to miss all his morning lectures during the long drive over—his eyes went straight to the mysterious boy. Sherlock, for all intents and purposes, appeared to be ignoring him. He gathered his sheet music and clacked it smartly against his stand to straighten it before placing it in the black messenger bag by his side. He then took out a soft cloth and wiped fingerprints from his violin in a way John could only describe as loving. Sherlock's face changed as he admired the gleaming, cherry-stained wood, his eyes softening and his lips quirking up into just a hint of a smile.

John's heart stuttered, and he looked pointedly at the floor. He needed to keep his guard up. This was the same boy who'd taken one glance at him and told the entire class his life story, after all. It seemed he was not only capable of making his life hell but was perfectly willing to.

John packed his clarinet away as quickly as he could and then hesitated. Sherlock didn't appear to be in a rush to leave, but that didn't necessarily mean he was waiting for him. He might have no intention of honouring their professor's order. He might tell John to piss off the moment he approached him. Sherlock had made it readily apparent all through class that he had no respect for authority. That was how John had learnt his name. Professor Woods had stopped them every ten minutes and shouted it along with some admonition, which Sherlock snidely returned.

John was still debating his next move when a shadow fell across his face. He looked up and saw a tall boy with tan skin and large, brown eyes standing before him, grinning widely.

"Hey," the boy said. "M'name's Lestrade. You're Watson, right?"

He stuck out a hand, and John paused for only a moment before taking it and shaking it firmly. "Yeah, but you can call me John."

"You'd best call me Greg, then. Welcome to Sonnet Academy."

"Thanks, mate. Glad to be here."

There was an awkward pause, and Greg raked his fingers through his longish brown hair. He glanced nervously over his shoulder before turning back to John and saying, "Look, you're obviously a big boy, and I'm sure you can take care of yourself, but . . . don't let Sherlock get to you. He's an all right bloke if you ignore everything he says, but he can be a bit difficult to get along with."

"There's an understatement if I've ever heard one." Another boy with brown hair and an unpleasant look on his face joined them, dragging a pretty dark-skinned girl by the hand. "Holmes is a miserable tosspot, and _you,_" he jabbed a finger at John's chest, "would do well to stay as far away from him as you can."

John's eyes narrowed at the boy's derisive tone. "I think I'd rather decide that for myself, thanks."

"Don't listen to Anderson," Greg cut in. "He's still in a strop because Sherlock deduced that he and Sally here have been shagging since last term. Nearly lost my lunch that day."

"Shut it, Lestrade," the girl—Sally—said in a tired voice. She sounded just like his mother did when Harry and he bickered over nothing. "We're just trying to give the new bloke some friendly advice." She folded her arms and fixed John in her dark gaze. "Sherlock Holmes is a psychopath, and if you don't watch your blond arse, you'll be his next victim. He's a complete freak, that one. Struts about here like he owns the place. There's not a student in this school who can stomach him."

"If you're quite finished," said a cold voice behind them, "I believe I've a tour to give."

John's stomach lurched guiltily as he craned his neck to look behind Greg. Sherlock was standing a few metres away, glaring at them. John had never been close enough to notice the unusual colour of his eyes—a mixture of blue and grey like rain clouds—but now they pierced into him, dragging down his body and under his skin. He couldn't say how, but John felt like Sherlock knew every secret he'd ever had just from looking at him. Combined with his wild curls and angular face, he looked otherworldly. And beautiful.

"Speak of the freak," Sally scoffed, though she shuffled behind Anderson in what John recognised as a defensive manoeuvre. "We were just telling Watson here to stay away from you if he knows what's good for him."

Sherlock flexed his fingers around the handle of his slender violin case and looked down his nose at her. "How kind of you, Donovan, though considering your home life, I hardly think you should be dispensing advice. Tell me, how long has your mother been away? Does she even bother to ring you and your little sister anymore?"

Sally paled, her skin turning the colour of toffee. Anderson started forward, but Sally grabbed his arm and said something to him in a low voice. The two of them gave Sherlock a heated glare before plodding away, muttering to each other.

"Can't give it a rest for a single day, can you, Sherlock?" Greg sighed.

"I was not the one who instigated this time."

"All right, yes, I suppose you didn't. You certainly don't make my job as class rep any easier, though. I'll go have a chat with them in a mo'." Greg scrubbed a hand over his eyes, and John got the distinct impression that this was not the first time he'd had to clean up after Sherlock. "Please don't perform any hazardous experiments on John, yeah? This one actually seems like a decent bloke. And John," he turned to face him, "just remember what I said."

John glanced briefly at Sherlock. He was still studying him with his unnervingly sharp gaze. John swallowed thickly but nodded, and Greg seemed to take that as all the assurance he needed. He gathered his own things (John had pegged him for a percussion sort of bloke, but he actually played viola) and trotted off after Anderson and Sally. It was then that John realised everyone else had already left. Sherlock and he were alone in the dimly-lit auditorium.

"I doubt you need a formal introduction," Sherlock began, "since you know my name quite well by now, but I'll offer one regardless." The gesture would have been polite, but the way he said it—like he loathed having to waste time on every single word—destroyed the effect entirely. "My name is Sherlock Holmes. I'm seventeen, like you, and I will one day be known as the greatest violinist who ever lived."

He inclined his head slightly, and a few curls spilled over his forehead. John was briefly mesmerised by the artful motion before he snapped out of it. "How did you know I'm seventeen?"

"Simple. You don't look stupid enough to have been held back a year, but for your parents to allow you to transfer to a new school between terms, you must be near legal adulthood. Plus, there is the rather telling fact that your date of birth is printed on the emergency contact card you attached to the handle of your clarinet case." He pointed with a long, slender finger to the white rectangle of paper that was indeed tied to his case. "Though why you thought anyone in possession of a lost clarinet would need your DOB is beyond me."

"Brilliant," John blurted and then immediately flushed.

Sherlock looked as though he'd just been slapped. "Was it?"

"Absolutely! That was . . . quite brilliant."

"You might want to add some new entries to your lexicon. At the moment it seems a bit bare."

John wanted to be insulted, but he was too impressed. He took a moment to appraise his new classmate. Instead of the usual shirt-and-jeans combo that most teenagers wore to school, he was wearing a tight purple dress shirt that seemed one deep breath away from bursting open and a stylish black suit jacket. His trousers had clearly been tailored to emphasise his narrow hips and long legs, making him appear even taller and leaner. And that was saying something.

"You don't eat enough, do you?"

Sherlock gave him an appraising look. "Not the most astute of observations, but better than most. Is that your medical opinion?"

"Ah, yes, how _did_ you know I wanted to study medicine? And everything else you said when I first walked in? You're not stalking me, are you?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I didn't know, I saw. I've already explained the bit about your clothing. My guess is your mother bought you that hideous jumper to assuage the guilt she feels at not being able to care for you properly. The scuffs on your shoes and the wear on the inner sole—no offense, but you're clearly a bit bow-legged—suggests they're second-hand. If you mother cared enough about your appearance to spend much-needed money on clothing, she would never let you buy used shoes, so they obviously belonged to a family member; an older brother is most likely. I can tell he's an alcoholic from the worn heels. It was a shot in the dark, but a good one. He's come stumbling home drunk one too many times. Your family clearly cares about maintaining appearances. If your father were present, he would never tolerate such behaviour from an eldest son, so absent parent it is. And your interest in medicine was the simplest bit: you have a lanyard for St Bartholomew's Hospital around your neck. They only give those out to students who have attended their summer classes, meaning you intended to go there but ultimately couldn't. A lack of finances was the most logical conclusion."

John stared at the boy as if he'd grown a second head. "Blimey . . . that's incredible. And you got all that just from looking at me?"

Sherlock's lips quirked up into a flicker of a smile. "Yes. It's simple deductive reasoning. Anyone could do it if they just opened their eyes, though the average person could never match my aptitude for it."

"I don't doubt it," John said, smiling. "You did get one thing wrong, though."

Sherlock huffed. "There's always something. What'd I miss?"

"These shoes belonged to my sister. Harriet's a bit of a tomboy and has fairly big feet for a girl."

"Sister," Sherlock hissed. "An older _sister._ I should have known."

"Don't beat yourself up, mate. You were in sparkling form otherwise." John stood up and stretched, forcing himself not to flush when Sherlock swept his gaze up and down his body as if studying a painting. "Well, I suppose we'd best get this tour out of the way, yeah? I'd like to find some dinner and get unpacked at some point."

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, but then he stepped back and gestured to the exit with his free hand. "After you."

**vii.**

Listen.

The air outside buzzed with the sharp tang of ozone. In the short time they'd been in class, storm clouds had gathered and were looming ominously over the academy's spindly towers. Tonight would be one of the nights Sherlock loved best, a night when the wind shrieked and beat against his shutters, and lightning split the sky into chunks of obsidian.

Sherlock inhaled a lungful of salt and the smell of rain. Much as he enjoyed the fresh air, his fingers twitched for want of a cigarette. He was only able to smuggle them in about once a month, and his supply had run out days ago. He tried to ignore his itching veins as his blood screamed for sweet tar and nicotine. He lived for the sharp crackle of burning leaves and the smoke that coiled lazily between his lips, even as it killed him.

The grass squished wetly beneath his feet as he led the way across the grounds, John trailing dutifully behind him. The observatory was on the edge of campus: a towering building made of moss-covered white rock. It was one of Sherlock's favourite places, partially because it was beautiful and partially because no one ever went there. He could climb up to the top and read for hours or play his violin. He could pretend he was the last person to mar the face of the Earth, the last to see the scars and pockmarks dug into her face by human ambition.

A small voice in the back of his head told him he was an idiot for showing the observatory to John—what if he loved it and started spending time there?—but he squashed it down. He didn't yet know why, but he _liked_ John. The word sounded strange even in his head, but it was true. The blond teen seemed to offset the stormy sky like a drop of gold following just behind him. Sherlock couldn't stop picturing the look in John's dark blue eyes when he'd called him brilliant. It was ridiculous and sentimental, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

"So," John said, half-jogging to keep pace with Sherlock's long legs, "why does a music school have an observatory?"

"This wasn't always a music school, as you undoubtedly already know. The monks who ran the monastery hundreds of years ago were fond of stargazing. You can still read their records of planetary movement and constellations in the library. The more recent ones, at least. The school has an irksome predilection for putting anything of true value behind glass, where no one will ever read it again." Sherlock had lost count of the number of times he'd been caught trying to get his hands on some of the older, restricted texts.

"Are we allowed to be out here? It's nearly nightfall. I'd think it was against the rules for us to wander about on our own."

"Ugh, rules. Rules are boring." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "As long as we're in Main Hall by suppertime, no one will miss us. Besides, if one of the administrators stops us, I'll simply tell them that Professor Woods ordered me to give you a tour, which is true."

John grinned that warm, disarming grin of his. "Fantastic."

"Do you realise you say that aloud?"

"Oh, sorry. I'll stop."

"No, it's, um . . . fine."

They reached the entrance—a heavy, wooden door set deep in the stone—and Sherlock flung it open. He was hit with a familiar, musty smell: old books and history. The inside was relatively bare, just a winding stone staircase that led up to the observation deck and a few scattered candelabra. The building had never been outfitted with electricity, and all the useful furniture had long been placed into storage. Sherlock dug his silver zippo out of his pocket and lit the large candle he kept purposefully near the door.

He led the way up the stairs without looking to see if John was following, though he could hear his soft footsteps behind him. They climbed in silence until they reached a blank wall at the top of the stairs. There was nothing in sight but a single support beam off to the side. Sherlock heard John suck in a breath to ask what they should do now, but he stopped him and pointed to the low ceiling just above their heads. There was a square hatch that was nearly invisible beneath a layer of dust and grime.

"You can't seriously mean—"

"Hold this," Sherlock said, impatiently thrusting the candle into John's hand. "The next part is tricky. They removed the ladder years ago to keep students from climbing up here. Obviously they weren't entirely successful." Sherlock reached up on tip toes and fingered the nearly-invisible latch until he felt it slide back. He then jumped up and hit the door as hard as he could, forcing it open with a bang. Sherlock grinned and glanced back at John. The other teen was alternating between staring at Sherlock and staring at the black square above them, his expression apprehensive but not, Sherlock was pleased to note, fearful.

"Give me a boost, and I'll pull you up," Sherlock said, extending his hand for the candle. John hesitated. Sherlock glared at him. "I'm not going to leave you down here, all right? Look, here's some insurance." He dug into his pocket and pulled out his zippo, proffering it to John.

John paused for only a moment longer before saying, "All right." He traded the candle for the lighter, tucked the latter into the pocket of his jeans and then laced his fingers together, forming a foothold.

Sherlock held back a grin as he inserted his right foot into the boost, grabbing John's shoulder with his free hand for balance. He noted almost absently that the muscles he could feel tensing beneath his fingers were quite well-developed for a teenager. He angled the candle towards the hole in the ceiling and carefully shifted his weight onto the other teen's hands. John raised him up with surprising ease, and within seconds, Sherlock's head was clear. He scrambled to set the candle down before bracing his palms on either side of the opening and hoisting himself the rest of the way through. The old planks that comprised the floor creaked beneath his weight but held firmly. Once he was situated, he laid flat and reached back through. It was difficult to see sans candle, and John was admittedly heavier than he'd anticipated, but with a firm grip and a bit of grunting from them both, Sherlock yanked him up, and they tumbled to the ground.

"That," John said, rolling onto his back and panting, "was insane."

"I should be concerned by how often my actions are met with that remark, but I actually find it rather exciting."

John let out a short bark of laughter before sitting up and stretching, his jumper pulling taut across his broad shoulders. He paused for a moment before turning to face Sherlock, a thoughtful expression visible on his face even in the flickering light. "I thought you said you come here all the time."

"I do." Sherlock almost grinned as he watched gears turn behind blue eyes.

"Alone?"

"Yes. Always."

"But how do you get up here when you don't have someone to give you a boost?"

"I scale that wooden beam down there. It takes a minute, but at this point I've got it down to a science, so to speak. I'd have done this time, but since you were right there . . . ."

"Unbelievable," John said, but he was chuckling, and then Sherlock was laughing as well.

"Come on," he said, climbing to his feet. "I'll show you the best part. Leave the candle."

Sherlock had only gone a few steps when he heard a rustling sound and then felt something warm encircle his wrist.

"Er," John's voice said from inches away, "this is a bit awkward, but I don't know the way in the dark as well as you seem to, and I can't see, so . . . ." He trailed off, and Sherlock could practically feel John's cheeks flaming.

He flexed his fingers but didn't break the grip. "It's this way. I'll walk slowly."

He led John through the darkness until they reached the far wall. Then he said in a low voice, "I want you to close your eyes and stand right here until I tell you to open them." He paused for a moment and then added, "I know you have no reason to believe I won't pull some adolescent prank and leave you up here in the dark, but I'm asking you to trust me. It'll be worth it if you do."

There was a brief beat of silence, and then John replied, "My eyes are closed."

"Good. I'll be back momentarily."

Sherlock gently broke John's grip on his wrist and moved forward with practiced ease, knowing precisely what he was reaching for. A few tugs of heavy cloth later—how the stewards could stand to hang curtains over the glass that took up half of the domed ceiling was beyond him—and the room flooded with light. The storm had abated just in time for the sun to set, and Sherlock took a moment to admire the sight of it, resplendent in pink and gold, kissing the distant horizon as its rays scattered over the sea. The waves had calmed to gentle white caps that lapped almost flirtatiously against the rocky shore. The few clouds that still dotted the sky were bruised purple and burned bright orange around the edges. No matter how many times Sherlock had stood in this spot and watched the sun sink beneath the waves, the simple beauty of it was never lost on him.

He moved quietly to John's side, and—unable to resist a bit of theatrics—he leant in until his breath tickled John's ear. "All right, open your eyes."

The initial gasp and sharp intake of breath made the whole thing utterly worth it.

"Wow." John eyes were wide, encircled in a halo of white lashes, and reflected the colours of the sky. "It's lovely." He seemed like he wanted to say more but couldn't quite bring himself to. Sherlock had to bite his lip to keep from grinning. He had a mad impulse to take that traditional English reticence and slowly unravel it, but it was only John's first day. They had plenty of time.

They. Novel.

"I'm glad you like it," Sherlock said. In a rush of impulse he added, "You can come here whenever you'd like, even if I'm not with you. Just don't tell anyone else about it. If I climb up here one day and find it full of those idiots from our class, I'll set fire to your clarinet."

Sherlock was trying to sound menacing, but John just laughed again. "I promise to respect the sanctity of this place. It'd be a shame to share it with just anyone."

They stood there silently, watching as the sun slipped down until it disappeared entirely. When the last drops of light faded, stars flooded the sky: a bed of white flowers bursting open in a blue field.

"You'd never see that in London," Sherlock said before he entirely realised he was speaking. "Not unless it was a billion years from now and all of civilisation had returned to dust."

He felt John's eyes on him. "Is that where you grew up? London?"

"No, but it's where I'm going to live when I'm a legal adult and can finally escape this abominable place. I'll find a flat in the centre of everything and play my violin every day, even if it's just on the street corners."

He glanced over at John, anticipating derision, and was surprised to see he was smiling.

"Sounds like fun. I'd love to go to London."

"It'll be heaven." Sherlock nodded reluctantly towards the exit. "We should go. We were supposed to be back ages ago."

"We can go in a bit. I want to enjoy this."

"What about the rules?"

"Rules?" John repeated, his face deadly serious. "Rules are boring."


	2. Chapter 2

**viii.**

Listen.

John fell asleep that night to a cacophonic lullaby of wind and rain.

His room at the academy wasn't all that different from his one back home, but he could sense the cold stone around him and smell the strangeness of it. It crept into his nose and seeped into his brain, whispering _not home not home not home _in a ghostly tone_._ He wondered if there was some cosmic law of the universe that said he could never feel at ease in a place so much bigger and more important than him.

Moments before he drifted off, he flexed the fingers of his right hand and remembered the feel of a warm, too-skinny wrist. He remembered the breath that had fluttered against his ear and the deep voice that was more vibration than actual sound.

What he would truly never forget, however, was how Sherlock's face had looked when he'd gazed out over the sea. His bizarre features were drenched in gold, and his eyes had been alive with something John couldn't name, something like clarity and sadness, as if he were gazing far into the future and sensing how infinitesimal their place in it was.

John's heart had never beat so fast in his life.

**ix.**

Listen.

Sherlock didn't sleep at all that night. His room was located in the south wing, at the end of a long stretch of corridor, and frankly he preferred it that way. The teachers never bothered to trek down that far, and he could play his violin well into the night without anyone complaining. Truthfully, it was why they'd moved him down there in the first place, no matter what the official report said.

He was sat on his bed with the three cigarettes he'd managed to con out of a groundskeeper laid out in front of him. Acquiring them had taken a bit of doing (i.e. blackmailing), but it was well worth the effort. He had a three-cigarette problem to solve, and tonight was his favourite sort of night.

Sherlock grabbed the first cigarette and climbed up onto his desk, standing on his toes to reach the window carved high into the wall. It opened with a squeak like a startled mouse. The rain had petered out into a light drizzle, but there was still plenty of wind, whistling through the towers and rattling the glass precariously. Sherlock closed his eyes and spent a moment savouring the sheer chaos of it before lighting his cigarette with the book of matches he kept on the sill. The first drag was exquisite, a symphony of bitter and sweet that rolled over his tongue and into his lungs. He held his breath until the smoke burnt inside him before finally releasing it in a stream that was instantly sucked out the window. He took the next puff at a more normal pace and then settled into a rhythm, drawing it in and releasing it steadily.

He'd intended to let his mind wander for a bit, but his thoughts settled unerringly on a certain blond he'd not yet managed to riddle out. John Watson was an anomaly to say the least.

Sherlock Holmes did not have friends.

He did not give new students tours of the grounds, and he did not, _did not, _take them to his favourite place, let alone invite them to return.

Sherlock could just imagine the look on Mycroft's face if he'd seen him today, leading John by the wrist through the dark and watching the sunset with him. He'd tap that ridiculous umbrella of his against the ground and smile imperiously. _A friend? You? Really, you must be joking._

His parents would be even worse. They'd want to know what John's connections were, what sort of family he came from. They'd be horrified if he told them the truth: that John was a lower-class boy of absolutely no political significance. Mummy's lips would curl down into a bright pink half-circle of displeasure, and Father would stand by the fireplace with his arms folded behind him, literally turning his back on his son until he decided to "be reasonable." Something dark inside of Sherlock twisted delightedly at the thought.

That same dark part of him had to admit their reaction wouldn't be unwarranted. His interest in John made little sense, even to him.

The only way in which John Watson was remarkable was that he was unremarkable in almost every way. Average height, average build and from what Sherlock had heard in class, slightly above-average talent for the clarinet. It was almost impressive how entirely unassuming he managed to be. There was no discernible reason why Sherlock was intrigued by him, but the feeling was there regardless.

Unbidden, a veritable slideshow of John's facial expressions drifted through his mind, from the cheeky wink he'd given him in class to the grin that touched his lips as they formed the word "Brilliant." Sherlock could usually tell what people were thinking just by looking at them, and whilst that was certainly true of John, the surprising part was that John was always thinking precisely what was on his face. There was no guile there, no attempt to hide his real feelings behind pleasantries or lies. He genuinely meant it when he called Sherlock amazing, or more commonly, a bloody bastard. Honesty was not something Sherlock was accustomed to, and he had to admit it was refreshing.

Sherlock realised with a start that his cigarette had burnt down to the filter. He ground it out and shivered as a blast of icy night air nearly slammed his window closed.

He had a feeling it was going to take more than three cigarettes to solve the mystery of John Watson.

**x.**

Listen.

Neither of them could pinpoint precisely when it happened.

It started with polite nods in the corridor and the occasional exchanged word. Then one of them showed up where the other ate lunch, and soon it seemed only logical that Sherlock should tutor John to help him catch up in their music theory class. Before either of them even realised it, it became expected for them to be together. Normal. Routine. _Ordinary._ If there was an assignment, they were partners. If Sherlock got into a fight (an alarmingly frequent occurrence) John was right there with him, his lip bloody and his eyes glinting dangerously.

Their relationship was nowhere near perfect, of course. By befriending Sherlock, John had managed to isolate himself from the entirety of the student body, and part of him resented the other boy for that. Sometimes Sherlock looked at John and could see with startling clarity how easy it would be for him to get bored.

For now, however, they were both content to walk the corridors of the academy together, shoulder to shoulder, and ignore the distant storm clouds looming on the horizon.

**xi.**

Listen.

The first time John heard Sherlock play, he knew he was done for.

They were in class—a month after John had arrived at the academy—and they were practicing a new piece that would be performed at the spring recital. Sherlock had won the violin solo in the private auditions, and from the grumblings of the other students, John assumed this was a regular occurrence. Sherlock was about to perform it in front of the class for the first time, and despite their apparent dislike for him, the other students were practically buzzing with excitement.

John watched with muted interest as Sherlock rosined his bow, his hand flicking almost lazily along the taut horse hair. He was wearing his usual suit jacket and perfectly-tailored trousers, but he'd opted for a white silk dress shirt, giving his appearance a more formal air. His Stradivarius violin looked as if he'd spent half the night polishing it; the dark-stained wood gleamed cheerfully from its position on his lap. Sherlock flipped it over a moment later to attach his navy shoulder rest to the body, completing his pre-performance preparations.

At their professor's beckoning, Sherlock rose to his feet, took his place behind the stand set at the front of the stage and placed his bow delicately against gleaming strings.

The first few notes were soft, _pianissimo,_ almost tremulous as Sherlock drew them deftly from the instrument. They lingered in the air, and he layered sound gently into them, coaxing the melody together. John craned his neck to the side, eager for a glimpse of the sheet music, but Sherlock's body was blocking it. He slid effortlessly through a complex array of grace notes and just as subtly flowed into a decrescendo that had John leaning forward in his seat. Sherlock's back was ramrod straight, but he moved with every stroke of the bow, swaying with the notes, rolling with their nuances as if they were the ebb and flow of the sea. The music evoked an image of the sun just rising over a peaceful scene: a meadow with a river gurgling nearby and small butter-yellow moths flitting in the air.

John didn't even notice the crescendo until it was upon him, Sherlock built it so gradually. The melody rang in the air, strong and pure, flooding into every corner of the auditorium. The scene in John's head abruptly changed to one of a hunt: dogs tearing through the peaceful meadow in pursuit of a rabbit, scattering dirt as their paws gouged the earth. John could feel the music vibrating deep within his chest; he couldn't shake the thought that Sherlock was playing him every bit as much as his violin.

Suddenly the tempo shifted, _accelerando,_ and Sherlock fingers danced down the fingerboard in a practiced blur. John couldn't see his face, but he knew his eyes were closed, the whole of his brilliant mind focussed on wringing music from metal and wood. If the notes had a physical form, they would be spinning vertiginously through the air, wrapping around Sherlock's swaying form only to rocket up to the atmosphere and laugh at the sound barrier. John had never heard anything so sweetly beautiful before, but what truly struck him was Sherlock's lissome form, outlined in white from the stage lights, dancing even as he stood in place.

John didn't need to be a mind-reader to know in that moment, Sherlock was alone in his own private universe. He and his violin were all that mattered, the two of them forming a single entity with a single consciousness. Sherlock needed nothing, no one, but the glide of his bow and the crooning beauty of the music he crafted as carefully as if he were cutting the notes from diamond.

The final harmony—a two-toned whole note played on the A and D strings simultaneously—lingered in John's mind long after Sherlock had stilled, his bow arm hanging limply by his side.

Deafening silence followed the performance. Every individual in the theatre seemed completely frozen in place. No one dared to so much as breathe.

Until John Watson climbed to his feet and began to applaud.

**xii.**

Listen.

There had never been any shortage of praise in Sherlock's life. He'd taken up the violin at three years of age and had been met with nothing but trophies and standing ovations since. But this, this was something new.

Sherlock lowered his violin and turned slowly about, brow furrowed in confusion. His in-class performances usually garnered jealous murmurs and begrudging congratulations. Who the bloody hell was applauding?

His gaze landed unerringly on John Watson, his blond head sticking out of the woodwinds section like a lighthouse beacon. Sherlock felt something electric crackle down his spine the moment their eyes locked. Heat flooded into his cheeks, and to his absolute horror, he realised he was blushing. He tried to turn away, but John's eyes rooted him to the spot, intensely blue even from a distance, open like two windows leading straight into his brain. Sherlock could see everything John was feeling: admiration, awe and most frighteningly of all, pride. John was proud of him. Sherlock had never been the subject of someone's pride before, not even his parents. To them, he was a wind-up toy they could parade about at parties.

Sherlock felt his heart clench in his chest with an emotion he'd assumed he'd never feel. In that moment, he was struck by a single, indisputable truth.

John Watson was going to ruin him.

**xiii.**

Listen.

John was lying in bed that night—staring up at the ceiling with his arms folded beneath his head—when he heard an odd rustling sound. Curious, he propped himself up on his elbows and glanced down. There was a piece of folded white paper on the floor, presumably one that had been slid beneath his door. He heaved himself out of bed, picked it up and carefully opened it.

_Text me. -SH_

The handwriting was a jumble of spikes and loops, impatiently scrawled across the page by a large hand. A series of numbers, which John recognised as a phone number, were under the cryptic message. Without hesitation, John tugged his mobile out of the pocket of his jeans and typed a quick text.

_Sherlock?_

His phone vibrated not thirty seconds later.

_Very good, John. Your observational skills may be salvageable yet. Meet me at the front gate in ten minutes. Bring your clarinet. -SH_

John sighed and looked out his window. Rain lashed against it.

_Are you barmy? It's pissing outside._

_You needn't be so dramatic. Just do it. -SH_

John was about to mail back and ask why Sherlock felt compelled to sign his texts when they both clearly knew who he was, but he just couldn't be arsed. It was undoubtedly one of Sherlock's thousands of inexplicable quirks. John located his socks, trainers and the most water-resistant coat he owned and dressed quickly, grabbing his clarinet case and hurrying out the door as soon as he was finished. Whatever Sherlock had in mind was probably mad and dangerous and stupid, and John could already feel the excitement buzzing in his veins.

By some miracle, he managed to make it out a back door and to the stone archway without encountering an administrator. It was indeed raining outside but not so heavily that John couldn't see where he was going. A dark figure was waiting for him just inside the wrought-iron gate. Sherlock was wearing a long, dramatic black coat that John had never seen before, and his unruly curls were plastered to his brow. He looked strangely vulnerable, like a kitten trapped outside during a storm, even as his near-omniscient gaze assessed John from head to toe. His violin case rested on the ground by his side, carefully manoeuvred to avoid the mud.

"What the hell are we doing out here, Sherlock?" John asked, shielding his eyes from the rain as he looked up at the taller teen.

"I want to show you something," Sherlock replied, shouting slightly over the roar of wind, rain and sea. "Follow me."

He picked up his violin and swept off, his coat billowing theatrically behind him. John rolled his eyes but hurried to follow. To his surprise, Sherlock headed towards the seashore. There was nothing there but rocks and a spit of land that eventually rose into the cliff their school was built upon. John had never bothered to check it out before. Sherlock seemed to think it was interesting, however; he walked purposefully towards it without so much as glancing behind him to see if John was still there. The sea was a grey, stormy beast, rearing up only to smack itself against the rocks in sprays of brilliant white.

When they reached the sand, John's shoes sunk immediately into it, leaving behind footprints that filled with water. He was about to protest when Sherlock waved a hand in the air, indicating something thirty metres to their right. All John could see was an odd swatch of black in the cliff wall, but Sherlock made straight for it, gesturing to John over his shoulder. As they approached, the black patch seemed to shift, confusing John until he realised he was looking at something with depth. John's eyes widened. It was a cave.

"You're always showing me the most amazing places," John said as they approached.

"What?" Sherlock shouted over the rain.

John cupped his free hand around his mouth and leant up towards Sherlock's ear. "I said this is amazing!"

John couldn't see Sherlock's eyes in the dark, but he could feel him studying him. "Just wait until we get inside."

They scrambled up the rocks with Sherlock leading the way and John doing his best to follow. Sherlock had clearly done this enough times to know precisely where to step, and his longer legs gave him an even greater advantage. It was all John could do to keep his grip on his clarinet as he scrabbled for purchase on the wet rock.

They made it to the entrance and ducked inside. The difference was instantaneous. The raging storm lowered to a dull roar, melding with the occasional clap of waves hitting the shore. John set his clarinet down and peered into the dark. The cave was wide but not particularly deep, forming a near-perfect bowl shape, as if a giant had scooped out a handful of the cliff. It smelt of salt and earth, with just a hint of something metallic. The walls glistened with moisture, and the air was cool and still. John whistled appreciatively; the sound echoed back at him.

"I discovered this last year," Sherlock said, his deep voice rumbling beautifully as it reverberated against the walls. "Its shape lends it natural acoustics. I come here when I want to practice without fear of being disturbed. I believe not even the administration knows this is here." As he spoke, he slipped his coat off his shoulders and began rolling up his sleeves. His light blue button down was soaked through and clung to his pale skin. Every dip of muscle and smooth pane of flesh was clearly visible, including two round, dusky nipples.

John felt his ears grow hot and quickly looked away. "You seem to have a talent for finding places to be alone."

Sherlock's eyes were unreadable as they studied him. "I've not been alone since I met you."

John forced himself not to fidget and asked, "So, what are we doing here?"

"I'm glad you asked. We're going to play a duet."

"We've not got any sheet music."

Sherlock crouched down and opened his violin case, removing his bow and bringing his instrument to his chin. "We don't need it. This is going to be an experiment of sorts."

"Like those mould samples you keep under your bed? I think I'll pass."

Sherlock smiled softly. "Not quite. I just want to test something. How long have you been playing the clarinet?"

"Er, 'bout ten years now. I started in primary school."

"And how would you rate your skill level?"

John's face grew hot. "Look, I know I don't have your talent. Hell, no one at this school does, but if this is some attempt to shove it in my f—"

"Please, John." Sherlock's face was soft. "Just answer the question."

John clenched his jaw but answered, "I'd say I'm a bit above average. Not the best but certainly not the worst. It's why I came here. To learn from the best."

Sherlock nodded. "I know you're suspicious, but I'm asking you to trust me. Will you play with me?"

John couldn't be certain, but he thought there was an edge of something in Sherlock's voice, almost like pleading. He sighed and began unpacking his clarinet. He could pretend to resist all he liked, but they both knew he would always eventually do what Sherlock wanted. "Right then. What role am I playing in this experiment of yours?"

"Simply listen to what I play and then jump in whenever it feels right. Take as much or as little time as you need."

Sherlock had risen from his crouching position and was stood near the mouth of the cave, facing John. Soft, grey light filtered around him, making him look even more ethereal than usual. He gave John a final, unreadable look before raising his bow to the strings and beginning to play.

The sound was low and deep—earthy—filling the cave like a rockslide. John watched Sherlock's hand make the peculiar shaking movement of a finger _vibrato_, giving the notes a wavering quality. John was instantly entranced. Sherlock's eyes slid closed, and he seemed to melt into the music, swaying slowly. The sound rose and fell with the motion of his body; John realised with a barely-suppressed start that Sherlock was matching the rhythm of the crashing waves outside. Sherlock was playing the part of the cave: the earth that seemed so unmovable, yet the waves carried bits of it away every time they touched. He was the endless flow of nature, the forces that inevitably shaped the land around them.

John raised his clarinet and brought the mouthpiece to his lips unthinkingly, and then he was playing.

John couldn't have named the notes if he'd tried, and yet he knew precisely what to do. His brain was operating on autopilot, layering a melody on top of Sherlock's that danced daintily with his, a ballerina's feet just barely kissing a stage. Where Sherlock was strong and steady, John was light and teasing, a flirtation played in the octave above Sherlock's. He was the life that languished in the sun above the crust of the Earth, brief as a candle flicker and every bit as bright. Their notes fused together to form a single entity, a story told from two different perspectives simultaneously, punctuated by the roar of air and sea.

John felt the moment when Sherlock's world opened to include him, when it was no longer just his violin and him. In John's head, he could see them joining together, interlacing like the melody they'd concocted, a harmony of minds and souls. John hadn't realised how lonely he'd been—removed from his family and the only home he'd ever known—until Sherlock let him in. He felt like his lungs were expanding in his chest, like the soft light filtering into the cage was seeping into him and pushing all the darkness out. Above all else, he felt Sherlock. He could sense a kindred loneliness in him, could feel his great mind and how that greatness separated him from his peers.

There had been moments when John had been on the receiving end of Sherlock's scathing brilliance, and he'd wondered if there wasn't something terrible lurking beneath those pale eyes. John knew, however, in that moment that only a soul as bittersweet and damaged as Sherlock's could produce such a beautiful melody.

Their song gently drew to a close, the final notes ringing in the air before sweeping out across the sea.

Slowly, Sherlock lowered his violin until it hung limply by his side. He looked lost, like he had no idea what to do now. John realised he was breathing hard, his blood buzzing in his ears. He felt like his thoughts were birds darting around in the cage that was his skull, refusing to be still.

"John," Sherlock said, his voice only barely loud enough to be heard. "That was . . . amazing. Perfect. Incredible. God, and you said you were a bit above average. I had no idea—" He cut off abruptly and stared at the ground, his lips pressed into a thin line.

The distance between them was suddenly unbearable. John put his clarinet down on the bare rock and stepped forward. Sherlock didn't seem to notice his approach until they were inches away. His head snapped up, and his blue-grey eyes skittered across John's face. He was trying to deduce him, trying to read what he would do next.

John knew he wouldn't be able to, because John himself didn't know.

He moved as if his body were not his own, reaching up to cup Sherlock's face in both his hands. Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but John shook his head frantically. The moment stretched between them like a gossamer thread; the slightest ill step could snap it. Sherlock's skin was feverish to the touch, his eyes wild and his cheeks flushed. There was a mad impulse building in John's body, but he didn't dare put a name to it. He brushed his thumbs along Sherlock's insane cheekbones, almost expecting the sharp edges to cut him. His eyes darted from unruly black curls to full lips and back again. Christ, but Sherlock was beautiful. John's whole body ached, and it could only be soothed one way.

"Sherlock," he breathed. "Please don't be angry with me for this."

He stretched his neck up until their faces were level and then gently, so very gently, brought their lips together.

The first touch was a spark in darkness, startling them both. John tried to pull away, but Sherlock fisted a hand in his jumper and drew him closer.

"John," he breathed against his lips. "_John." _

And then they were kissing, open-mouthed and hot, like they wanted to devour each other. John made a muffled _mmph _sound as Sherlock yanked them hard together. They were both still dripping with rainwater, but the heat from their bodies quickly seeped through their wet clothes. John heard a distant clatter of wood and realised Sherlock had dropped his violin. Moments later, long fingers raked through his hair, sending shivers down his spine. He felt a tongue flick against his bottom lip and moaned, darting his own out to meet it. It wasn't until his back hit cold stone that he realised Sherlock was moving forward, pinning him to the wall of the cave. It felt like Sherlock's hands were everywhere, clawing down his back and shoving up his jumper and smoothing over his hot skin.

"Sherlock," John muttered against his insistent lips, "Sherlock, God, _please._"

The other teen growled, honest-to-God growled, and pressed their hips together. John felt a sharp jolt of arousal when he realised Sherlock was hard, his prick pressing insistently against his belly (fucking hell, Sherlock was tall), and his own was rapidly filling with blood.

Sherlock kissed him like he was memorising the taste of him, like he wanted to touch every inch of him and map out every contour of his mouth. John quickly found himself melting under the attention, his whole body burning. He felt like he was floating, his brain was so flooded with euphoria and need.

"Sherlock," John whispered again, "you're amazing. So brilliant and beautiful, and God, I want to be with you so much."

Sherlock shivered against him, and in a burst of impulse, John shoved a hand between them and pressed the heel of his palm against Sherlock's clothed erection.

Sherlock tore his mouth away and made a noise that was half pleasure and half surprise. John started to kiss him again, but before he could, Sherlock shoved him back. John hit the wall of the cave, temporarily stunned. He shook his head as if to clear it and looked up at Sherlock. He was breathing heavily, the buttons on his too-tight shirt straining as he inhaled. His lips were kiss-bruised to a dark red colour that made his skin look even fairer, like blood spilt in snow. What caught John's attention, however, was how absolutely horrified he looked.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said. "I truly am."

John had never before heard a human voice sound so much like breaking glass.

In a blur, Sherlock packed up his violin, grabbed his coat and swept out the entrance of the cave, all without so much as a glance behind him.

John watched him go, his back pressed to cool stone. For a long moment, he was too shocked to think.

When his brain finally rebooted, a single thought drifted to him as if through a fog: his first kiss with a boy had been in a cave by the sea, and it had tasted like the rain.

**xiv.**

Listen.

Sherlock lay tangled in his sheets that night with a fist wrapped around himself and John's name on his lips. Pleasure seared into him as he remembered how John's mouth had tasted, the way his tongue had felt as it slid wetly against his, the feel of his hot prick, hard and insistent, through his jeans. Sherlock's fist worked quickly as his mind lingered over every detail of the way John felt. His body had been so warm beneath Sherlock's hands, with so much firm muscle for him to grip onto. He'd wanted nothing more than to strip away every barrier between them and catalogue everything about John, down to the last freckle. His normally golden hair had been darkened with water, and his jumper had been pasted to him like a second skin, emphasising his broad shoulders and narrow waist. Good God, John Watson was attractive, and he seemed to have absolutely no idea. Sherlock could still feel the ghost of his lips on his, the rasp of stubble as their skin dragged together, the jolt of aching pleasure that had surged into him when John had put his hands between Sherlock's legs—

Sherlock came with a cry. Hot liquid split over his fist and onto his stomach. The aftershocks made him spasm, and he slowed his hand before sensitivity kicked in and turned pleasure to pain.

Sherlock's final waking thought, after he cleaned himself up and climbed back into bed, was the look on John's face when he left.

There had been plenty of confusion there, and hurt as well, but what had stood out most clearly to Sherlock was the fact that John, as he leant against the wall and watched him with those unfathomably deep blue eyes, did not look surprised in the least.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: **This is the final chapter! Please enjoy. :) Once again, this was written for queenchaos on tumblr as he prize for winning FuckYeahTeenlock dot tumblr dot com's Punklock contest. Please check out her work!

Oh, also, there be smexin' ahead. You've been warned.

...

**xv.**

Listen.

Sherlock was avoiding him.

John checked all the usual places—the library, the private practice rooms, the tree under which they ate lunch—but Sherlock was nowhere to be found. John was lucky if he caught a glimpse of black curls walking briskly ahead of him in the corridor.

During lecture, Sherlock stared resolutely at the professor, never so much as glancing in John's direction. When they were dismissed, he packed up his violin like it would explode if he took longer than ten seconds and then sped out of the auditorium, leaving confused murmurs in his wake.

After five days of this, John finally had to admit the truth. While the other students packed up for the day, chatting and laughing easily, he sat perfectly still, staring at the door Sherlock had just raced out of like hell hounds were licking at his heels. John flexed his fingers to keep them from trembling. The signs were clear. Sherlock obviously wanted nothing to do with him. John must have been mistaken about him. He'd honestly thought they were friends.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up. Greg was standing next to him, sympathy obvious on his face.

"I told you," he said, not unkindly. "I told you not to let Sherlock get to you. You're not the first one he's got bored of."

John knew Greg meant well, but the words made his chest burn with an acute mixture of shame and jealousy.

"I'll be fine," was all he said. "I should have known better, after all. Sherlock's a virtuoso, and I'm just a third clarinetist. Why would he ever want to waste his time with me?"

"That's not—" Greg started to say, but then he stopped, an odd look on his face. "You'll work it out eventually. Let me know if you want to sneak a beer from the kitchens sometime."

John nodded, already knowing he would never take Greg up on the offer. Perhaps Sherlock had rubbed off on him in their brief time together, because John could tell just from looking at Greg's face that he knew it, too.

**xvi.**

Listen.

Sherlock had memorised the letter by the third time he'd read it, yet he couldn't stop staring at it.

It mocked him from where it lay on the bed before him, so innocuous with its unadorned letterhead and plain eggshell colour.

Mummy worries so, Sherlock . . . hope you're remembering to behave yourself and form useful connections . . . expect you to perform at the Duvall christening . . . wouldn't do to have you make a display of yourself in front of . . . Remember the most important rule: caring is not an advantage . . . .

Sherlock's lip curled up in disgust. If only he could delete Mycroft's patronising tone from his memory. As if he needed his bi-monthly letters to remind him what awaited him at home: an endless parade of tedious social gatherings with affluent families and plastic smiles. It would have been easy for Sherlock to acquire a private tutor and hone his skills from home, but he knew with utter certainty that it would have driven him mad to stay in that sterile hospital of a house for a moment longer than he had to.

Sherlock reached forward and crumpled the letter in his fist, squeezing it until his knuckles turned bone white. His mental voice changed from Mycroft to their father, his sharp, booming baritone ringing in his ears as clearly as if the man were in the room with him. Caring is not an advantage. The common masses will drag you into the mud if you let them. We must remain above them, Sherlock, as is our place.

He could imagine the look on his father's face if he knew what Sherlock had done with John: poor, low-class John. Sherlock had never feared his father, but he knew quite well what he was capable of. If he got so much as an inkling that his precious prodigy of a son was mucking about with a boy with no connections, John would be expelled from Sonnet Academy before day's end.

It was stupid. It was medieval. It was ridiculous. And there was nothing Sherlock could do about it.

Never before had Sherlock felt such burning hatred for the people he was forced to call family. Their godforsaken politics had taken away the first shred of happiness he'd felt without having his violin on his shoulder.

Sherlock closed his eyes and fought against his tightening throat. Images of John kept flashing through his head: John smiling warmly at him, John playing his clarinet while water dripped like diamonds from his hair, John fisting a hand in his shirt and kissing him until all the oxygen in the world abandoned him.

Sherlock wouldn't let them get to him.

Sherlock would protect him, even if it broke them both in the process.

**xvii.**

Listen.

John had never minded the rain. He wouldn't have survived seventeen years in England if he did. He'd always found it strangely soothing: the steady but erratic beat of it against his window, the electric smell of an oncoming storm, the way it seemed to wash everything clean and leave the world looking fresh and new.

The problem wasn't that the days since Sherlock had stopped talking to him were rainy and miserable. It was that they weren't.

The sun had risen every morning in a clear, cloudless sky. The grass seemed bright and luminous beneath it, almost neon green, and everywhere he looked colours were crisp and vivid. Students laughed in the corridors and lounged outside in the gardens, soaking up the precious sun while it lasted. Even the professors seemed more relaxed.

It was beautiful, and John loathed it.

He wanted lightning and floods and howling wind. He wanted the Earth to shudder beneath his feet and crack apart. He wanted a sign, an acknowledgment from the universe that something important had happened.

Instead, all he got was the odd, unsettling feeling that he'd forgotten something. Or that something had forgotten him.

**xviii.**

Listen.

Sherlock watched him, even though he'd sworn a thousand times that he wouldn't. John was a creature of habit, and it was a simple matter to deduce where he'd be at any given time of day. To anyone else, it would look like John had settled into life at the academy splendidly.

Sherlock knew better, of course.

He saw the way John's left hand occasionally trembled, the way he clenched his fingers to hide it. He saw the baleful looks John cast towards the perfect blue sky outside the library windows and the way he only gave the professors the most cursory of answers in class. During meal times, John sat by himself in the mess hall and left as soon as he was finished, retreating to his room before anyone could invite him to join them. He spent the majority of his time in the private practice rooms with his clarinet, and Sherlock sometimes dared to stand at the door and watch him through the narrow pane of glass. John never so much as glanced up, his eyes riveted on his sheet music as he played for hours. It was those times, when John thought no one was looking, that he allowed his face to fall just slightly.

Sherlock kept hoping John would go to one of their places, the ones Sherlock had shown him and invited him to use, but John never did.

Every day, Sherlock would watch him. He'd see him walk past the observatory on his way to lecture or gaze out towards the water, to the bit of beach that led to their cave. John never made any move towards them, however. It was as if he'd forgotten they existed or at least was making a damn good show of it.

Every day, Sherlock was hit with a fresh wave of disappointment. It was illogical and superfluous, but no matter how hard he tried to stop it, there it was.

He had no right to feel anything at all, Sherlock told himself as he lay in bed at night and tossed restlessly.

This was what he'd wanted, after all. He had no one to blame but himself.

**xix.**

Listen.

John knew it was stupid, pathetic even—no, beyond pathetic—but he just couldn't stop himself. It was bitterly cold outside but calm in a way it only ever seemed to be in the dead of night. He shoved his hands deeper into his jacket pockets and shivered, trying not to think about what a bad idea this was. He approached the academy's south dorm, his shoes crunching the grass with each step, and counted windows: two from the bottom and four from the left. Sure enough, the light was on in the one he sought, just as he'd known it would be.

Sherlock always kept late nights.

John bent over and searched the ground for a suitable rock, big enough to make some noise but not to smash the window. He located one and gripped it tightly, studiously ignoring the voices screaming in his head for him to forget this and go to bed.

He'd tried to move on. He'd tried to focus on his clarinet and forget that he'd ever known Sherlock. Really, he had, but he couldn't stop thinking about him, remembering the sound of his voice, picturing his frightened face when he'd apologised in the cave. John would never be able to rest until he knew why Sherlock had ended their friendship, and so here he was, standing outside his dorm like a loon. Sherlock would probably take one look out the window and tell him to piss off. He might not even say anything at all, just shut the light off and pretend John wasn't even there. He might tell the other students that John was obsessed with him, that he'd come crawling to his window at night like a stray dog. John was effectively handing him the means to turn him into a laughing stock.

Still, John had to try.

He reached back, aimed as carefully as he could and threw the rock. It hit Sherlock's window dead-on; John was never so grateful for all his years of rugby. He quickly reached down and scooped up another one, tossing it just like its predecessor. Three times he hit the window, then his next two shots went wide, but still he kept gathering rocks and lobbing them at the glass. He was on his tenth rock, elbow cocked and ready to throw, when he saw a flicker of movement.

John paused, lowering his arm. He thought he might have imagined it, but then he saw an unmistakable crown of dark curls pop into view. Shit. He hadn't considered that Sherlock's window might be too high up for him to look through. His cheeks flamed with embarrassment. He was just considering making a dash for it when a slender hand appeared, grabbed some sort of lever and threw the window open. John heard a voice in his head like an echo: I scale that wooden beam down there. Sherlock had a particular talent for climbing seemingly unclimbable surfaces.

A moment later, Sherlock hoisted himself up and poked his head out the window.

"John," he called, "I had a feeling it'd be you."

His face was carefully blank—John could tell even from a distance—without a trace of the panic it had displayed last they spoke. John reined in a stab of pain at Sherlock's nonchalance and then took a few tentative steps forward. "Sherlock, I need to talk to you."

"There's nothing to talk about."

"You know damn well there is!"

John couldn't be certain, but he thought he saw Sherlock shift uncomfortably. "I don't know what you want from me. I've made it abundantly clear that I've decided to sever our acquaintance. Please believe me when I say it's for the best."

John's eyes began to burn, but he refused to acknowledge it. "I just want to know why. Why did you act that way in the cave and then completely ignore me? At the very least I deserve an explanation."

John definitely wasn't imagining it now. Sherlock's expression was clearly distressed. He hesitated for only a moment longer before saying, "Use the side door. Knock four times in rhythm so I know it's you. If a teacher catches you, I won't bail you out." His head disappeared a moment later, and the window slammed shut.

John hurried to obey, his heart already pounding in his chest. He managed to get inside and to the southern wing without any trouble, but as he approached the dorms, he had to duck behind a heavy curtain while two stewards—laughing obnoxiously at some joke he couldn't hear—passed by. Once the coast was clear, he made his way to the isolated room he recognised as Sherlock's and raised his hand to knock. He tapped out four steady quarter notes, and the door opened almost immediately.

"John," Sherlock said, his voice deceptively soft. He was wearing a plain grey shirt and cotton pyjama bottoms that hung low on his hips. A blue dressing gown was thrown over his shoulders carelessly.

John swallowed and tried not to stare at the strip of creamy stomach that peeked out below his shirt. "May I come in?"

Sherlock nodded and stepped back. John realised belatedly that he'd never been in Sherlock's room before. They'd always gone to his, and it was immediately apparent why. Every surface in the tiny space and most of the floor was completely covered in junk. There were stacks of books, papers, dishes with half-eaten food and some of the infamous mould cultures John had heard so much about.

"Blimey," John said. "If the administrators caught sight of this, they'd throttle you."

"I'm aware," Sherlock replied in a smooth tone. "That's why I make a point of never giving them cause to come here."

"What about the quarterly room inspections?"

"You'd be surprised how easy it is to bribe the stewards."

They fell into awkward silence, both decidedly looking anywhere but at each other. John toyed with several opening lines, but nothing seemed quite right. So, was I just complete rubbish at kissing, or what? Did I play an E flat when it should have been sharp? Was our whole friendship a lie?

Thankfully, Sherlock broke the silence. "Look, John, I know you don't understand, but what I did was for the good of us both. A relationship between you and me would only end in disaster, and it's in your best interest to stay far away from me."

John felt a frisson of anger. "I can decide who I want to be friends with for myself, thanks."

"You don't have all the facts. You simply cannot make an informed opinion on the subject."

"Oh, and you think you're entitled to make one for both of us? Because you're this unparalleled genius who knows everything? Look, if you didn't really want to kiss me, just be a man and say so. I'd rather hear the truth than some bullshit story designed to spare my feelings."

John braced himself. Sherlock wasn't known for mincing words, and John had seen him bring grown men to tears.

Sherlock, however, looked genuinely taken aback. "John, you must know that wasn't it at all."

John hesitated, feeling something akin to hope for the first time in days. "It wasn't?"

Sherlock huffed and ran an agitated hand through his hair. "You're an even bigger idiot than I originally assumed if that's what you thought. I mean, I . . . I so obviously . . . How could I not—" Sherlock cut himself off, his cheeks flaming. "It's not that I don't want you, John. I do. I just can't want you. You don't know what my family is like. They'll hurt you, and—"

John didn't hear another word. He felt a pulse of something deep within him, like a bolt of lightning that fizzled low in his belly. Sherlock wanted him. No matter what he said, there was still a chance.

John took a step forward, and Sherlock's eyes shot immediately to his face, assessing him warily.

"Sherlock," John said calmly, "let me kiss you again." It was a brash move that he honestly expected to backfire, but Sherlock's lips parted as if in invitation. John watched, hypnotised, as a pink tongue slid out and wet them slowly.

Encouraged, he continued, "If you can kiss me and still tell me afterwards that you don't want to be with me, I'll leave you alone. I'll never bother you again. But," he took another step, "I'm betting you can't do that."

"John," Sherlock said, his voice deepening to the black-velvet baritone that made John's whole body burn, "we can't. We just can't. Much as I would love to spit in the face of decorum, what I do affects you as well. My family leaves me be so long as I don't decimate their social standing. If my parents knew about you, they—"

"Your 'family' can piss off," John said, still advancing. "They can do anything they want to me, but if they think they can keep me from you, they're barmy. God, Sherlock, please say I can. Please say I can kiss you."

As John moved forward, Sherlock attempted to retreat in the small space. The backs of Sherlock's calves hit his bed, and John closed the last of the distance between them. They were both breathing raggedly, heating the air between them. Sherlock's pupils were so dilated his eyes looked black. John tilted his head up until their lips were a hair's breadth apart. The tension between them was electric, sparking in the mere centimetres that separated their bodies.

"I need an answer," John said quietly. "If you want me, you can have me. Christ, you know I'm already yours, but I need you to say yes. It would kill me if this were one-sided."

John felt like he was seconds away from bursting at the seams. He wanted, needed, so badly, and Sherlock could end his agony with a single word, if he would only—

"John," Sherlock finally whispered, his eyes wide and feral, "yes."

John didn't need to hear it twice.

He crushed their lips together like he needed Sherlock's to breathe. Sherlock made a half-strangled noise before grabbing his shoulders and gripping them hard, as if they were his anchor to reality. It was almost painful, the way his long, slender fingers dug into his flesh, but John was too aroused to care. There was an ache deep within him, sharp and intoxicating, that only Sherlock could satisfy.

John caught Sherlock's bottom lip between his teeth and nibbled until he whimpered, the desperate sound shooting straight between his legs. John hadn't realised how much he'd come to need this, need the feel of a sinewy body against his and a soft, full mouth. He licked Sherlock's bottom lip as if tasting it, earning a quiet groan. Sherlock parted his lips a moment later, and John mimicked the motion, deepening the kiss hungrily.

Sherlock swept his tongue into John's mouth and rolled it in a way that made his knees tremble. God, it was infuriating how much Sherlock turned him on. How had he not realised it sooner? John returned the kiss as well as he could while his brain was rapidly shutting down. He managed to grasp the hem of Sherlock's shirt and tug it up, allowing him to slip his hands under the soft fabric. He raked his fingers along the taut skin of Sherlock's abdomen and tried not to smirk when the other teen made a helpless noise.

John wasn't going to be able to hold out for much longer.

He pulled his lips away from Sherlock's and let them drag along his neck, mouthing over his pulse. The other boy was shivering despite the heat rapidly building between them. Sherlock's hands buried themselves in his hair, and his fingers clenched, as if they were desperate to pull him forward and close an imaginary distance between them.

John swallowed thickly and through the haze of his arousal allowed his fingers to drift down until they settled on the waistband Sherlock's of pyjamas, toying with the elastic. The other boy sucked in a breath as if John had shocked him, and God if that wasn't hot.

"Sherlock, can I . . . ? This is so fast, but I want to—"

Sherlock cut his sentence off by crushing their mouths and hips together simultaneously. John let out a startled moan when his own heavy, swollen prick was nestled into the crease of Sherlock's thigh as if it were designed to fit there. The friction was so good, so hot, but he knew he needed more. John fumbled forward, and Sherlock fell back onto his bed. John crawled over him immediately, lining their hips up just right so delicious friction rocked through them both. He then pushed at Sherlock's dressing gown and shirt, stripping him of both in seconds. Sherlock was ripping at his jeans, trying desperately to get them open. His nimble fingers made short work of the button and zip, and Sherlock snaked a hand down into his pants. John saw stars the moment slender fingers wrapped around him. Sherlock stroked him like he stroked the fingerboard on his violin, and John thought he might die from how good it felt.

Before his brain could process it, he felt cool air and realised Sherlock had managed to work his jumper up to his neck with one hand. John pushed his hand away and yanked it over his head, nearly shivering when Sherlock's intense gaze latched onto his chest. His years of rugby had given him broad shoulders and well-defined muscles, and the look on Sherlock's face was nothing short of ravenous. John had to hold back a full-body shudder as arousal spiked sharply through him.

Sherlock was working at his own pyjama bottoms now, his blue eyes glazed and his full bottom lip caught between his teeth. John took a steadying breath and reached to help him, pulling the soft fabric down and thrusting one hand below the waistband of his pants. Sherlock's prick was velvety hot and fit perfectly in his palm; Sherlock gasped and threw his head back, exposing the length of his milky neck. John couldn't help but lean down and nip at the skin, feeling nearly dizzy with need. Fuck, he needed more.

Sherlock pressed them close again and reached back into John's pants, drawing out the leaking head of his erection. John had to look away, or he thought he might come just from the sight of those pale, slender fingers wrapped around him.

"I've never done this before," Sherlock whispered. His eyes were so intense, they seemed to burn.

"Right, yeah," John sputtered ineloquently. "Me neither, but I think—like this. Do it like this." He clenched Sherlock's hip and pulled him up until their pricks lined up, nudging against each other. He had to bite his lip to keep from moaning at that light sensation alone. He took Sherlock's hand and guided it to the base of their pricks. Sherlock caught on a moment later and wrapped his hands around them, sending a shiver down both their spines. John wrapped his own hand around what Sherlock's couldn't reach, interlocking their fingers where he could.

There was an awkward pause as they tried to coordinate their hands, but then they began to slowly stroke together, each choking back moans. The rhythm increased with their laboured breathing and pounding hearts, and Sherlock buried his face in the crook of John's neck. John felt hot, much too hot, and something was building in the pit of his stomach like a crescendo. Sherlock's body was all willowy lines and creamy skin, splayed beneath him like a wanton thing. He could hear his breath hitching as their hands worked faster, wringing aching pleasure out of them both. God, he'd never felt anything this good in his life, not when he touched himself or during any of the few awkward groping sessions he'd been a part of. This was a whole new level of pleasure, and all he wanted was more.

"Sherlock," he stuttered when he felt a tightening in his gut, "Sherlock, stop, I'm going to—"

Sherlock dragged his teeth down John's neck and then bit the junction of his shoulder.

All the air left John's lungs, and he didn't orgasm so much as dissolve into pleasure. He cried out, unable to stop himself, and jerked helplessly as Sherlock pushed his hand away and stroked him through it, his fist moving quickly over the head of his prick.

John's arms nearly gave out, but he managed to hold himself up as Sherlock milked every last drop of pleasure out of him. He sucked in deep breaths, willing his heart to stop racing. Christ, that was the best orgasm of his life. For a moment, John was too sated to do anything but stare at the beautiful teen beneath him. When he came back to himself, he glanced down at Sherlock's prick, red and glistening at the head. He hesitated for only a moment before he slid down and wrapped his lips around it. He suckled at it gently, uncertain of what to do, but it seemed that was enough. Sherlock practically howled the moment his lips touched his prick, his back arching off the bed. A burst of something hot and bitter hit John's tongue, and Sherlock groaned throatily.

John forced himself to swallow the mildly-unpleasant substance on his tongue just as Sherlock went boneless beneath him. They both breathed heavily for a moment, not-quite-comfortable silence stretching between them.

John flopped down onto the small bed next to Sherlock, tired and satiated in a way he'd never been before. He turned his head to look at Sherlock and found the other teen studying him. His eyes were as sharp and unreadable as ever.

"I was right," Sherlock said slowly.

John blinked. "What?"

"A week ago, when you applauded my performance, I thought to myself that you were going to ruin me. I was right."

John's brow furrowed. "Sherlock, I don't understand. Did you not like—?"

"Don't be daft. You felt for yourself that I liked it." John flushed bright red, but Sherlock went on as if he didn't notice. "I've spent the past three years avoiding forming interpersonal relationships at this school so nothing would distract me from my violin—and so my family wouldn't crucify anyone I decided I liked—but then you came along and mucked everything up."

John felt a pang in his chest. "Look, Sherlock, if you regret this or something, we don't have to—"

Sherlock silenced him with a gentle kiss. John couldn't stop the pleased noise he made when Sherlock pulled away. He felt like he could kiss those lips for ages. "Like I said, don't be daft. I don't regret anything." Sherlock hesitated, a familiar uncertainty creeping across his expression. "Do you?"

John toyed with the idea of torturing Sherlock a bit, but the look on his face was too open for him to take advantage. In the end, John merely grinned and said, "I only regret not transferring sooner."

**xx.**

Listen.

For two blissful weeks, everything was perfect. Sherlock hadn't known it was possible to feel so utterly content.

He had John by his side, with his warm smile and steady gaze, always ready to listen to Sherlock rant about protein complexes or go dashing off into the night. They shared kisses in back corridors and held hands when no one was looking. As the days stretched on and they spent their nights curled up in bed together, sneaking out just before the stewards made their rounds at dawn, it seemed as if nothing could stand in their way.

Until their secret got out, of course.

Sherlock had known from the very beginning that it was a matter of time. As discreet as they were when in public, they could only fool the student body into thinking they were unusually close friends for so long. Whispers began to follow them as they strode down the corridors together, and Sherlock knew word would reach his family within the week.

Two days later he was called into the head administrator's office halfway through morning lecture. He calmly packed up his violin and made his way to the front office, forcing his expression to remain neutral even as his heart pounded in his chest. A secretary directed him towards an imposing mahogany door, and without hesitation, he pushed it open.

To the right, there was a tidy desk placed in front of a set of curtained bay windows, and the far left wall was covered with shelves of books. There were two large wing back chairs in the centre of the room, set before a crackling fireplace. The head administrator was nowhere around, but Sherlock already knew that wasn't who he was really here to see.

Mycroft Holmes was sat in one of the chairs, his legs crossed at the knee and his hands folded over his slightly-protruding belly. He was wearing an expertly-tailored three piece suit in charcoal gray with a blue-gray waistcoat the colour of rainwater. His hair had been neatly parted, the ginger locks combed carefully to the side and back. His watch and shoes were posh but not obviously designer. Every detail of his appearance was intended to make him look both authoritative and nonthreatening, the perfect disguise to allow him to infiltrate the government's top ranks at the tender age of 24 without them even realising it.

The sight of him made Sherlock want to gag.

Mycroft gave him an unctuous smile. "Hello, brother dear. I trust you're in good health." He flicked a hand lazily at the chair across from him in invitation.

Sherlock clenched his jaw but dutifully went to sit down. He pulled his violin case onto his lap and opened it, removing the glossy instrument. He stroked it absently, more for comfort than anything else. "What do you want, Mycroft?"

"I've heard some disturbing rumours over the past few days," Mycroft continued, his voice measured and careful, as if he were speaking to a child. "It seems you've been oft seen in the company of a young man of little social standing by the name of John Watson. You two have become quite close, have you not?"

"He's my friend," Sherlock said defensively. His fingers drifted from the body of his violin to the E string and plucked it. The sound was clear but slightly flat. He adjusted the fine tuning peg below the bridge until it was correct. Mycroft watched him all the while, and Sherlock struggled not to let his indifferent expression slip for even a moment. If Mycroft had bothered to make the trip all the way here, he likely already knew something was going on, but there was a chance Sherlock could hide the extent of his relationship with John.

"Mummy and Father are worried about you," Mycroft continued in the same bland tone. "As am I. You've clearly fallen in with the wrong sort and forgot your purpose here. You are not attending this academy so you may consort with the lower orders. If you're going to have 'friends'," he said the word as if it were some distasteful slur, "they should be ones who can provide you with useful connections."

"I'll be friends with whoever I want, Mycroft," Sherlock bit back acidly. "I'm nearly eighteen. You can't stop me from - "

"'Nearly' is indeed the operative word," Mycroft interrupted. "You are not, as of this date, a legal adult, and it is only through the generosity of our parents that you're permitted to attend this academy. They may cease tuition payments at any time, and then you will be in quite the difficult situation indeed."

Sherlock couldn't keep his eyes from widening slightly. He'd known it was likely they would try to expel John, but he'd never considered they might remove him from the school. "They wouldn't. Mummy and Father would never do that. They're too proud of my playing."

Mycroft studied him for a long moment before he answered. "I'm quite certain there is little they wouldn't do to prevent you from falling into what they believe to be disreputable company. Bear in mind, your ability to play is not contingent upon your attending this school. They may decide your education would be best continued elsewhere, away from . . . distractions."

His tone made Sherlock pause. Mycroft almost sounded like he was trying to warn him. His gaze flickered over his older brother's face. He'd always thought of Mycroft as nothing more than the prize show dog their parents had groomed him to be, eager to take his place at their vapid dinner parties and discuss politics over brandy and cigars. Loathe as he was to admit it, there was a chance he'd not been entirely correct.

"John is not disreputable company," Sherlock responded, forcing his voice to remain calm. "He may not be from a wealthy or connected family, but he's not a vagrant. Their views on class are antiquated and needed to be abandoned in the last century. I will not allow our parents to separate me from the one good thing I've found at this school."

Mycroft suddenly leant back in his chair. "You love him."

Sherlock started. "Don't be ridiculous. Of course I don't. He's just slightly more interesting than the rest of the vacuous student body."

"There's no need to pretend for me, Sherlock. I already know it to be true." Mycroft steepled his fingers beneath his chin. "You know I make periodic donations to the school to ensure you're staying out of trouble."

"You mean you pay the staff to spy on me."

Mycroft held up a hand. "Call it what you will. The point remains, I know quite well that you and your rather attractive young friend have been nigh on inseparable these past weeks, and more than one individual has seen you sneaking from each other's rooms at night. If you're trying to claim your relationship is platonic, I would bid you to at least put some effort into your lies. You're boring me."

Sherlock's mouth clicked shut, and he felt heat bloom in his cheeks. Bollocks. He'd thought they'd been more careful than that. "That doesn't mean I love him. I'm at an age in which my transport has certain urges." He flinched. God, he was really discussing this with Mycroft. "I see no harm in indulging in an adolescent dalliance whilst I finish my schooling." He felt a pang in his chest and quickly shoved the feeling away. He would apologise to John later, though the boy would never know what he'd been forced to say.

Mycroft's facial expression shifted slightly, and for a moment, Sherlock thought he looked sad. Then he climbed smoothly to his feet and brushed imaginary lint from his beautiful suit.

"I'm afraid our parents do not view your relationship with John in such a harmless light. They sent me here with an instruction. You are to cease your association with him immediately, or you will be removed from the academy and sent home to work with private tutors."

Sherlock shot up, his case falling to the floor with a clatter. He held his violin to his chest like a mother holding an infant. "They wouldn't do that! They know I hate it there."

"Yes, they would," Mycroft said carefully. "That is how determined they are to sever your ties with John Watson. They refuse to watch their youngest son sully the family name. You must now choose, Sherlock. You can end your relationship with John and continue at this academy until you graduate - at which point you will be an adult and free to do as you choose - or you can cling stubbornly to this rebellious streak of yours and be sent home."

Sherlock felt the blood drain from his face. He could tell from the sharp look in Mycroft's eyes that he was perfectly serious. His parents were prepared to withdraw him from the academy in order to keep him from John.

Sherlock felt as though time had slowed, though he knew it was impossible. The smart thing to do would be to lie. Tell Mycroft what he wanted to hear. It would buy them a few weeks if they were careful, if they hid their relationship more diligently. But then what? Mycroft had eyes all over the Academy. He would find out eventually that Sherlock and John were still seeing each other, and then Sherlock would have to go back to the cold, lifeless museum he'd been forced to call a home all his life.

Perhaps he should just break up with John. It would only be for a few months, until they turned 18 and could take control of their lives. He would have to make the break up convincing, would have to make even John believe it, or Mycroft would see right through them. John would be furious with him at first, but even if it took him years, Sherlock would make him understand.

It was for their own good.

Sherlock gazed down at the violin in his hands, its cherry wood gleaming from a fresh polish. The scroll curled elegantly into the fingerboard, and taut strings gleamed gold in the firelight. This violin was his most prized possession. It had been his only friend for more years than he could count, and when he played, the world grew quiet, still, and all the noise in his racing mind yielded to the melody. His parents had never had to pressure him to become a violinist. The moment he'd taken the instrument in hand, when he was too young to even properly pronounce its name, he'd known he'd found a lifelong love. And now it was keeping him from the only person he might ever love more than it.

Sherlock traced one finger tenderly down the planes of wood, toying with the F holes. He brought the scroll carefully to his lips, kissed it reverently, and then with an almost lethargic flick of his wrist, he tossed his violin directly into the fire.

Wood hit wood in a cloud of sparks and smoke. The fire roared cheerfully like a beast that had just been tossed a delectable treat.

For the first time in Sherlock's life, he saw his brother's composed face morph into a look of complete shock. Sherlock burst out laughing. He'd never seen a man look so ridiculous in his life. Mycroft scrambled to the fireplace and attempted to drag the instrument out of the flames. He cursed as the fire burned him and covered his perfect suit in soot.

Sherlock just stood there and laughed - harder than he ever had before in his life - as waves of confused emotion flooded into him. He felt light and panicked and appalled and liberated. He collapsed back into his chair and shook it with the force of his laughter.

Mycroft eventually succeeded in rescuing his violin, but not before it had garnered some impressive scorch marks and two of the strings had snapped.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" Mycroft bellowed, red faced and clutching the burnt violin away from Sherlock as if he were afraid he'd try to throw it back into the flames. His hands were black, and inexplicably one lock of his hair was sticking up. It nearly sent Sherlock into another fit of laughter.

"It's really quite simple, Myc," Sherlock said when he finally managed to catch his breath. "If our parents try to separate me from John, I will never touch a violin again. They may be able to remove me from the school, but they can't force a bow into my hands. I shall forsake all instruments for so long as I live unless you all get your exceptionally large noses out of my life."

"Liar," Mycroft hissed. "You love the violin more than anything and anyone in the world. You wouldn't throw it away over some ordinary boy."

"I believe, brother dear," Sherlock drawled lazily, "I just did. Tell our parents precisely this: if they want to hold onto their precious virtuoso, they're going to have to let me live my life as I see fit. I'll come home for holidays, I'll play for their insipid friends, I'll even smile, but I will do it on my terms."

Mycroft breathed heavily for a moment, staring at him as if he'd never seen him before in his life. Gradually, the deadly serious look in Sherlock's eyes must have sunk in. Mycroft slowly straightened up and handed Sherlock his much-abused violin. He took it and stroked its back as if he could soothe it, feeling a frisson of guilt.

To the teen's absolute surprise, Mycroft smiled. "I'm proud of you, Sherlock. I had hoped one day you would find someone worth standing up to them for. I've not yet been so lucky myself. I shall tell them what you said, more or less, and I suspect you will not be hearing from them again for quite some time."

"Excellent." Sherlock returned the smile, and without another word, Mycroft exited the room.

Sherlock sat in his chair for a long moment afterwards, contemplating his actions. He hadn't fully understood what he intended to do until he was already doing it. He'd never suspected he would one day willingly sacrifice all his years of hard work for the normal, slightly bumbling blond teen who'd stumbled into his music class one day. It was impossible to say what precisely had changed within him, but Sherlock could feel it every time he looked at John's face. There was something light and bubbly within him now where once there had been only bitterness. He supposed Mycroft was right about one thing. Perhaps this was love.

He traced the pattern of smoke and scorch marks on the back of his violin.

Now he had physical evidence. Sherlock Holmes had a heart after all.

**xxi.**

In the end, Sherlock got his wish. He graduated from the Sonitum et Furore Academy of Music and moved into a flat in London where he could play his violin every day, even if it was only on street corners. More importantly, he brought a dashing, blond clarinetist with him, and they both managed to earn a place in a small but up-and-coming youth orchestra. It was there that they began composing their first joint piece: a duet for violin and clarinet, inspired by the clash of storm and sea.

But that, of course, was only the first movement.

**Finale.**

**The Cadence of Your Heart with Mine in D Major.**

John glanced at himself in the mirror for what had to be the hundredth time and adjusted his red bow tie nervously.

"Really, John, you look fine," called a deep voice from the other room.

John frowned at his reflection. There was no way Sherlock could see him. "How do you do that?"

"Believe me, it's a trifle." Sherlock strode into the room, looking elegant and even taller than usual in a deep blue tuxedo and white satin tie. John had had to force the tie around his neck, but once Sherlock put it on, he'd admitted how well it complimented his eyes and skin tone. "You've been fidgeting with yourself for the past twenty minutes."

"I don't know how you can be so calm," John grumbled. "Actually, yes, I do. You've done this loads of times, Mr Prima Ballerina."

"While I must admit I do have a certain level of experience when it comes to live performances, I cannot claim to know a pirouette from a promenade."

Sherlock strode up behind him and wrapped his arms around his waist, grinning at him in the mirror. "You'll be brilliant, John. I know you will. And you'll have me to back you up."

"But it's the Sydney Opera House! It's one of the most famous venues in the world! What if I get one step on stage and freeze?"

"Simple. I'll fake a seizure, and we'll try again at a later date."

John burst into only-slightly hysterical laughter. He tugged once more at his bow tie before turning about in his boyfriend's arms. "You're right. I'm acting like a kid at their first recital. With you leading the way, I don't see how I could possibly make a mistake."

Sherlock leant down and kissed him gently. "You underestimate your talent. It takes both of us to make this duet beautiful."

John didn't bother arguing with him. They'd had that conversation more times than he could count. Instead, he looked around at the other people getting ready—leaning to peer into mirrors, adjusting costumes, arranging props—and he wondered for the umpteenth time how he'd ever got lucky enough to be here.

"It wasn't luck," Sherlock murmured, pressing his lips to John's ear. "We've worked so hard these past years, and you especially have made incredible leaps as a musician. I can't believe I once thought you were merely above average."

"Stop reading my mind," John protested, but he shivered at the feel of soft lips against his skin.

"Never." Sherlock nipped his earlobe and took a step back, reaching for his hand. "Shall we?"

John took it firmly and turned towards the large metal doors that would lead them to the stage where, for the first time ever, they would perform their duet - the one they'd concocted all those years ago in a cave during a thunderstorm - before an audience of thousands of people.

John took a deep breath and squeezed his lover's hand. "I'm ready."

Sherlock weaved through the crowd with John in tow, dodging men with headsets and women shooing performers into the proper queue. A harried-looking man—the stage coordinator—was waiting for them by a heavy curtain that blocked them from the audience's view. Once they stepped beyond it, all their hard work would come to fruition

"You're late," the coordinator hissed, gesturing at a table beside him. John's clarinet lay next to Sherlock's (still scorched) violin and bow, and they quickly scooped them up. The man paused to say something into the small microphone at his mouth and then made a dismissive motion. "The rest of the orchestra is already on stage. Take your positions at the front, and then when the duet is over, go to your seats, just like in rehearsal." His tone was harsh, but even he was obviously giddy with excitement. The thrill of performance resonated in the air, contagious to all who encountered it.

Sherlock flashed John a conspiratorial grin, and then they were off, past the curtain and onto the stage, the heels of their shoes clacking against the polished wood. The bright yellow glow of the stage lights obscured everything but the orchestra, seated in a neat semi-circle, and the gleaming metal stands waiting for them. The audience was a black pit before them, nothing but whispers and rustling clothing.

John felt his stomach drop, his heart flutter in his chest, but all he could see was Sherlock in front of him, his face bathed in golden light as he glanced back at John and smiled. His eyes were filled with so many emotions: exhilaration, glee, anticipation and above all else, love. Love for the art he'd devoted his life to and love for John.

They took their places side by side, and the audience fell so silent it was deafening.

John brought his clarinet to his lips just as Sherlock placed his violin beneath his chin, and for a moment that stretched into an age, they were the only two people in the world.

John knew in that moment that he would follow this man anywhere, onto any stage in the world. No matter how small or insignificant the performance, he would trail him like the tail of a comet, forever chasing the brilliance of a bright, bright light.

And he would always, always, burn as brightly as he could.

For both of them.

The end.


End file.
